Double Take
by Clannadlvr
Summary: Postep to The Dover Test Josh sees Donna and does a double take...


Title: Double Take  
Author: Clannadlvr  
Rating: PG-13  
Summary: Post ep to "The Dover Test."  
Spoilers: Everything through the current season and "The Dover Test."  
Disclaimer: I don't own anything from The West Wing. If I did, don't you think Donna would stop dating gomers and Josh would get up off that adorable tush and do something about their subtext?

* * *

She didn't yell at me.

She didn't sputter and give me "the pout."

She didn't even hobble into my office on those ridiculous padded crutches just to glare at me.

And she certainly didn't rant and rave at me, spouting off an encyclopedic knowledge of just how independent women have become in the last thirty years.

She didn't say anything at all.

To be honest, I don't think I've ever been more worried in my life.

And that's when I realized that I don't really know this Donnatella Moss.

I know the old Donna. After spending seven years with her, Dr. FreeRide sabbatical notwithstanding, I think I've gotten to know her pretty well. I know she goes on Starbucks runs when she's depressed. I know she likes to paint her toenails some ridiculous color when she's feeling too cooped up in the bullpen- she says it makes her feel like she's on a beach in Hawaii, whatever that means. I know that she "brings the banter," even when she's just as worn out as I am, to get me out of my moods. I know that _she_ doesn't know that I actually _can _tie my own bow tie- I'm a selfish bastard who would never deny himself the simple pleasure of getting Donna that close so I can feel her breath on my skin as her fingers deftly work the knot.

And most importantly, I know that Donna has come a long way from that timid yet plucky- god, she'd hate that word-girl who waltzed into my campaign office and proclaimed that I needed her.

I've never heard truer words spoken.

So that's why I don't recognize this woman who sits behind the glass wall across from my office. She reminds me of someone I know, but the dark circles under her eyes, the hands that shake slightly when she hands me a memo, and the stooped posture give away the fact that she's an imposter.

Want more proof?

My Donna would never have allowed me to say "No means no" to gomer number one million and hang up the phone without a fight.

Who the hell is this woman who's taken her place?

Look, I may have the ego of all the Texas republicans combined, but even I can see past myself once in a while. But usually I don't have to think about it. I've always had this blonde pit bull who's forced me to look beyond my shiny white house and consider the feelings of others. It's become so second nature now that she usually doesn't have to point out when I'm being an ass or when I'm so caught up in myself that I don't realize when my comments border on cruel. She's trained me like a Labrador. But even though I know what to do, I still wait for her commands.

But she hasn't been doing that lately and I can feel the absence. So, for the first time in my life, I, Joshua Lyman, am putting someone else's feelings first of my own accord.

It's a really confusing process without my Donna as a guide.

Donna said something to me once, about a year or so ago, when we were having one of our late night beer and memo meetings. Of course, due to my "delicate system," Donna usually polices my intake…but this night, both of us seemed to ignore that little biological factoid. Still, I held myself back so that I had only two beers to her four to ensure an even playing field. (Yeah, it's sad that this woman can drink me under the table, I know.) We'd been joking around for a while…ok, well, I was ridiculing her usual parade of gomers and she was making snide comments about my floundering relationship with Amy…when I said something stupid. Really stupid.

"Donna, just shoot me now."

It was just one of those sayings, one of those off hand things you say when you're exasperated and you just want to change the subject. But it didn't play that way.

Her face turned pale white, the beer bottle rattling as she tried to place it on the desk. I grabbed her hand, settled the bottle, and tugged on her fingers till she faced me.

"Oh, shit, Donna…I'm sorry…I didn't mean…"

"No, it's ok. I just…" I watched her take a breath and blink the tears out of her eyes. "It's just…that's not a good phrase for you to say, ok?"

"Ok," I said numbly, restraining my grip on her hand so I didn't crush it with my reassurances.

We sat wordlessly for a while, the only sounds around us the occasional buzzing of my screen saver and the faint background murmur of the televisions in the bull pen. Minutes dragged by, but I just couldn't seem to let go of her hand, even though I knew the door was open and that anyone could walk past my office. "Afterhours" didn't mean jack at the White House.

"I couldn't see you," she said softly, finally breaking our moratorium on conversation.

"Wha?"

"That's when I knew there was a problem….I couldn't see you," she repeated.

"When?" I asked, trying to grasp on to her meaning.

"Around Christmas…or the weeks leading up to it."

"You mean…the PTSD?" I asked, not liking where this conversation was headed. But the desperate look on Donna's face made me stave off a subject change.

Her eyes got that faraway look. "I remember…walking past your office one day before the holidays. I was heading to the lobby to talk to the clerk when I just caught a glimpse of your desk out of the corner of my eye. There was someone in your chair staring straight ahead at the tallies on the chalkboard, not moving or even really breathing." Her eyes finally focused as she looked at me dead on. "I just stopped and tried to figure out who this stranger was in your office. It took me forever to realize it was you."

I remember brushing off what Donna said in my office that night over six combined beers. To be honest, it hadn't made much sense at the time and I'd just chalked it up to her grief and fear run wild. Sure, I understood how upset and worried she'd been for me that Christmas, but I didn't get how you could not recognize your boss of four years.

God, wouldn't she be smirking at the fact that I now know _exactly_ what she meant.

So, in my mind it's easy to make the connections. When Donna looked at me and saw a stranger, I'd been suffering from the psychological fallout of a traumatic event. She and I are now even on that score, a shooting and a bombing between us. But even though I know what this means and that the signs are all there, I can't help but be stuck on the sight of the stranger who sits in the desk across from mine.

For a few moments, I wonder if I'll ever see my Donnatella again.

And then I realize that the reunion is up to me.

I pick up the receiver and dial the number that got me through that muddled Noel, all the while watching the stranger who sits behind the glass wall in the office across from mine.

With each ring, her face becomes a little clearer and I hope someday soon I'll look on her without having to do a double take.

* * *


End file.
